


Gauls and Goats

by rivlee



Series: The Long Way Home [3]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron has many reasons to hate the Gauls; this is just one of them. Post-<i>Vengeance</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gauls and Goats

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the Starz television series _Spartacus_. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. 
> 
> **Warning:** Mentions of goat killing/ animal death. 
> 
> **A/N:** Unbeated. One of which I am sure will be _many_ goat-involved character background ficlets. I blame each and every spartagoats person.

Nasir and Naevia were going over the supply lists with Spartacus when a commotion broke out in the center of the camp.

“Yours or mine?” Nasir asked.

“You fucking shit Gaul,” Agron yelled.

“Yours,” Naevia said.

“Silence, you German fuck,” Crixus answered.

“And yours,” Nasir said. 

Spartacus shook his head. “No matter how much progress they make those two always seek to undermine any sense of peace in this camp. What is it this time?”

“Crixus breathed,” Nasir guessed.

“Agron spoke,” Naevia said.

Spartacus took the tablet with the lists and walked back inside his tent.

“Fix them,” he ordered. “I shall read the lists on my own.”

Naevia grimaced. “We are going to be short on food and wine but heavy on arms.”

“Better that than down two leaders, death caused by each other’s hands.”

Most days Crixus and Agron got along well enough but a relationship built on mutual distrust and animosity could not be healed in half-a-year. Frustration, stress, lack of progress, all caused the two leaders to turn to a brawl. Usually Nasir would leave them to it but this time, there was something more in Agron’s voice. There was true anger there and that way could only lead to causing actual damaging blows as opposed to cut lips and bruised faces. 

Naevia yelled for Crixus, easily pulling his attention from the fray, but Agron refused to stop. Nasir exchanged a glance with Donar and they both grabbed a shoulder to pull Agron back.

“Apologies,” Nasir said.

“Fucking fix him or put him down,” Crixus growled.

Under most circumstances, that was a comment guaranteed to cause _Nasir_ to start throwing punches. Naevia’s hissed _Crixus_ was enough.

Donar helped Nasir drag Agron back towards their tent. Nasir used every bit of strength he had to push Agron inside and gave Donar a thankful look in parting. Agron was impossible to handle on a good day; the addition of anger, blood lust, and too much energy was like trying to hold back a flood with a single bag of sand. When this inevitably occurred again, Nasir was leaving Agron to Crixus’ fists. 

“Why do you insist on antagonizing him?” Nasir asked.

“He antagonizes me,” Agron yelled. He paced their tent with jerky steps. “How Spartacus expects to gain victory with that fucking Gaul as a leader.”

“There will be _no_ victory if his captains cannot pull their heads out of their asses. This is not about petty arguments anymore, Agron. You must provide an example for our followers. If Spartacus’ closest advisors come to blows over words what sort of confidence does that build? We cannot let such words get to the Romans; they will exploit that like they do every weakness.”

Agron was still furious but he wasn’t shouting. It was a hopeful sign; he was considering Nasir concerns at the very least.

“What is about Crixus that enrages you so? All the Gauls cause anger in you but for him, it is the worst.”

“He is their leader, is that not enough? Germans and Gauls have never been allies.”

“They are now, they are _here_ ,” Nasir said. There was something deeper there. Agron could get along with Crixus. They would never be close friends, true, but they _could_ fight together as opposed to with each other. They could not risk this, all of this, for the sake of egos and tantrums.

Nasir caught Agron on one of his passes and held him still. He put his hands over Agron’s, forcing the fists open and pressing gentle kisses to the cuts and scrapes there. It was a distraction, a manipulation, yet Nasir would do anything to get to the source of this hurt. He didn’t like seeing Agron like this, more angry at himself than anything else and taking it out on any who passed his way. 

Agron paused now, thumbs caressing the skin of Nasir’s cheeks.

“Will you not tell me what is wrong?”

“You are so very underhanded,” Agron muttered. His smile took the sting out of accusation. “Can you not leave me to this?”

“Not anymore,” Nasir said.

Agron nodded and stood back. He turned to a corner of the tent, speaking his confessions to the shadows. 

“West of the Rhine, there is constant battle over who controls the lands. Various tribes of my own people, groups of Gauls, even some Celts from across the seas try and control it. The Romans sometimes venture that way, though they’ve never successfully pushed east of the river. My family, our lands lie near the southern border on the eastern banks.. Mother’s family is more towards the North and the sea but father’s has always had dealing with Gallic shits.”

Nasir’s knew he was gaping. Agron rarely spoke of his past, of his home. It was a deep wound, ever open and festering, and Nasir understood there were things he couldn’t say. He stayed silent, let Agron continue to relive those memories.

“My father was a Chieftain. Our clan was small, spread out amongst many farms. Father was the youngest of the leaders and still deferred to the Elders when it came time for treaties. We never wanted as children. Everything came from the farm. We had our sheep, our cows, our chickens, and those thrice damned horses. Gerlind even raised an abandon wolf cub. All were easily kept within the confines of the farm and its fences. Except the goats. Us boys, we herded them, on the hillside. Spent all day out on the stones watching them. All of the clan’s goats were our responsibility. You can’t gate goats, they always find a way to escape. Mother, she called us, my brother and I, we were her little goats.”

The name went unspoken, that of Duro, a word Agron still could not utter. 

“We had our favorites, our own goats among the clan. Adela, she ruled us all. Mother had Adela before she had any of us. Gerlind was next. Wodan was mine. I had him since I was a babe. Wulf was Du—was my brother’s from a young age, not his favorite though, that was Wido. Wido was the one he taught to open the latches of the doors and the gates.”

Nasir didn’t dare interrupt Agron though he desperately wanted to see his face. He could imagine the smile there, small, matched with sadness embedded in his eyes. 

“I was ten when a pack of Gauls came to negotiate a trade line across the river. We were recalled to the meeting space in the woods that day. It was the first time we were allowed to witness the proceedings. The Gauls’ fucking leader decided to bring a sacrifice for a meal.”

Nasir had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Agron, what did they do?”

“They killed my goat.”

“Your goat?”

“Yes, my goat.”

“Your _goat_.”

“Yes, my fucking goat, Nasir.” Agron’s turned, fists clenched. “They thought it fucking sport. Wodan was dead by the time they dragged him in, already skinned but I knew the markings of his coat. Wido’s hoof was broken but he was bucking mad. They offered the meat to us, laughing as we stood back in horror. The leader said clearly our clan didn’t know how to raise men if their boys cried over the deaths of livestock. My brother and Gerlind got their revenge later that night, dropping a sack of horse shit in their tent. I could do nothing, even in the face of their insults and laughter.”

Nasir had his own horrible urge to laugh; he could not fathom a lifelong hatred born from the loss of a single goat. He wouldn’t laugh, it was not the time, but later, when Agron was deep in sleep or meetings, he’d ride Nox out to the pass and do so until he wept. Now, though, he needed to comfort.

“Only cruel men laugh at the tears of children,” he agreed. “Still, it is not cause to hate a whole region.”

“It is a start,” he growled. 

Nasir did laugh then. He wrapped his arm around Agron’s waist and rested his head on the scar near Agron’s heart. “It is,” he agreed. “However, you must remember that you are no longer solely Agron of Germania. You are one of the rebel leaders of Spartacus. You stand with Syrians, Carthaginians, Numidians, Thracians, Greeks, Egyptians, Celts, those with a home they cannot recall, and yes, Gauls.”

“I cannot easily forgive it,” Agron said. “Every time I look at Crixus I see shades of that Gallic shit. Trade agreements with the Gauls never improved. I will never like them, Nasir.”

“I am sure that feeling is mutual. In this camp though, with our forces, you _must_ tolerate them.”

“And if they irritate me?”

Nasir playfully dug his teeth into his favorite spot on Agron’s chest. “You send them to me. We always need volunteers to dig the latrine trenches.”


End file.
